Poetry Of Extravagantly Manifold Significance
(Contains 7 poems from my 365 project)
A recent collection of poems from my 365 project, this time on the subjects of romance and autumn, read aloud to a backing track of cars passing by on a muggy August day.
You could build church foundations from the material found behind the bones of my chest, but you couldn’t found a church on it.
You could preserve vegetables for a long journey by locking them away behind my ribs, but you couldn’t cook them there.
You could find words of comfort written in veins between my lungs, but you couldn’t find comfort.
You could get lost forever in the empty space between my spine and breast, but you couldn’t stay there forever.
You could erect a billboard of fantasy love by wedging it between the muscles of my ventricles, but you couldn’t get me to notice.
You could be oxygen, and then maybe my heart could beat for you.
You could be beautiful, but I can’t give you anything.
You could be happy.
(Contains 12 poems from my 365 project on the subjects of tea or time).
With crooked foot bones, limping everywhere,
we have no roots but phones beneath our beds—
I’ll cling to you with tendril arms of curve
and bend of letters, sing to you with words
of song in black and white upholstery.
We break our arms at home these days, at work
our limbs are left alone to praise the tick
and tocking, but our minds are not. Are not.
Are knotting. Crooked eyes return to bed
and window staring dry. I’ll dream of you,
but first, my brain untangling, I will loose
my thoughts online. We needn’t think, with minds
so ragged, needn’t spend our flagged thoughts,
our mother knows our utmost tangle, shows
us what we needn’t say. I’ll dream of you,
I think, but first my mind must empty, first
my mind must think no thoughts but empty sleep.
So deep, our sleep, we dream of nought; so cheap,
our being, weeping not for rights, so god
must send his angels grey to rain upon
the broken day that we ignored in sleep.
Your face will be my sun, since Ra is wont
to burn me, keeps me up at night, won’t let
the heat subside. Your eyes will be my stars,
since city lights are for the beetles in
their search for purpose. Will your skin be kind
to me as earthen surface fails my feet?
With crooked hedgerows, showing everything,
we have the privilege of knowing what
our lack of privacy is doing to
the cleanliness of all our homes. Though I
am rather closed, I’d like to let you in,
but watch your step—it’s dark in here, my hedge
is all around us. Do we need to see,
or will our words in darkness be enough?
the failed fruit
the futile child
who never grew
but longs to die
the squandered sperm
the broken egg
who never earns
but will not beg
the damaged dream
the backwards flesh
who never seems
to do his best
the bastard dirt
the homeless seed
who has no worth
that no one sees
andthe false start
no joy within
my wrinkled heart
in the ivy, dead, it lies,
baring bones and shriveled eyes.
a dead crow in the leaves.
in the grass it lay before.
now, it isn’t any more
than dead crow in the leaves.
tragedy had struck its wing,
now it lies, a broken thing,
a dead crow in the leaves.
i will take its bones, inter
skull and hip to mother earth—
a dead crow in her leaves.
time will show it become more,
more than feathers, drying gore.
a dead crow is the leaves.